


Love is Not a Major

by indigogreyx



Series: Spamon Crossover [3]
Category: Pretty Little Liars, Pretty Little Liars Series - Sara Shepard, Teen Wolf (TV), The Vampire Diaries - L. J. Smith, Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Fandom High, Fluff, High School, Multiple Crossovers, Pining, Punk, Young Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigogreyx/pseuds/indigogreyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damon is a smart jock. Spencer is a smart punk. How they end up under the bleachers as a weekly ritual, neither of them knows or cares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is Not a Major

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another Spamon crossover, but this time intermixed with characters from their fandoms and Teen Wolf as well (because I love them). Human high school AU with punk!Spencer and scholarlyjock!Damon. Brief descriptions of sex.

She’s snakebitten and purple-haired and everything wrong with the world.

Which is an exaggeration. But he’s an entitled little ass, so he figures he’s allowed to hate her a little more than he should.

And she’d started it anyway, the hating. When she’d shown up at rugby practice amidst all the girls in tight sweaters and boys in boat shoes just to stand there and stare. She hadn’t even bothered to sit, just leaned against the concrete by the entrance and  _watched him_ , he swore she was watching him, even when Danny laughed and told him he was dreaming. But that wasn’t the worst part. He could handle the eyeing, was used to having people pay him attention; he wasn’t co-captain for nothing, even if that “something” wasn’t the ability to cooperate. He was _good_. He had college scouts dropping by every Wednesday for the games, and it’d even gotten to the point where Finstock would yell “pass the damn ball, Salvatore, it’s not attached to your scrotum!” and Damon would roll his eyes before making a perfect assist.

She never  _smiled_. She never looked impressed, or intrigued, or even disgusted, and honestly, he would have preferred that. Sparking  _some_  emotion was better than disinterest; he could have taken it in stride with a sneer and forgotten all about it, but what could he do with  _nothing_? So he ground his teeth, ducking his head and tackling harder, deciding she couldn’t have been looking at  _him_  with such disinterest after all. But he knew she was. Could feel her gaze heating up the back of his neck like he bet her mouth would, body all black sheer and skin that would taste good under his tongue, and when had this turned into something he thought about in his bedroom?

After that, he couldn’t escape her. Not that he had been able to  _before_ , but her presence hadn’t torn up his skin and danced along all his nerves when she’d just been a reasonably attractive girl in skin-tight reds and boots. He has a black leather jacket hanging in his closet, ready for winter, but after watching the way she wears hers, effortless, like she doesn’t care how effortless she  _looks_ , he constantly flips between pulling his out early to impress her and never, ever wearing it again.

He’s always in the library. He skipped out on the Letterman so he doesn’t look quite as obscene, but he does still sink down in his chair and prop the book up on the table to get the full visual impact of  _words_. Sometimes he doesn’t even read, just stares at the black typewriter print on the browning pages and feels the crank in his chest loosen a little. He likes words of other people, ones that aren’t his dad’s or his coaches or even his friends’. He likes finally getting to stop hearing them and take them at his own pace, reimmerse himself in the ones he wants and skip the ones he doesn’t. He likes the quiet, the small buzz of activity without sound, and he glares more vehemently across the stacked shelves when someone laughs just a little too loudly at the computers.

So maybe that’s why he likes her.  _Not_  – likes. Notices. She’s quiet too. When she’s perusing the shelves, sitting down in the middle of an aisle to flip through a chapter or an entire novel if she’s got time or it’s short enough.  _You’re in the way_ , he thinks, but he’s not sure if he means for the people trying to get past or his own thoughts. Either way, she doesn’t care. Or look at him. It’s like off the field, she doesn’t even know he exists. Which is impossible. Because he’s  _him_. And despite the danger of sounding like Whittemore, he knows everyone recognizes him. He’s talented. He’s douchebag-charming. He’s fucking  _hot_.

Class is the same way. Damon slouches in the back, only pulled out of his loathing of absolutely everything by the constant twitch of Stilinski’s foot. He doesn’t talk in class, but not just to skip answering questions. He doesn’t talk to  _anyone,_  because, no matter what two letters they put in front of the subject name, the kids here are only concerned with boosting their GPA’s and their parents’ morale. Not to really  _get it_. And he wants to get it. Thinks he already does, when he’s feeling particularly disenchanted, but some days Ms. Blake will make a quiet statement about the short story they’re reading, and he’ll feel a little embarrassed by how much it widens his eyes and punches him straight in the gut.

Sometimes he has to talk, though. He’s the go-to when the same question has been lingering in the air for more than a minute, and Ms. Blake turns her gaze on him, silently pleading for him to pull  _something_  out. So he rolls his eyes, sighing audibly, and will growl out an answer that’s textbook accurate. Of course, Ms. Blake typically hisses a warning when he throws in a curse word here or there, but he just doesn’t feel he can accurately express himself when limited to the vocabulary of propriety. Or some shit.

Spencer doesn’t talk either. Doesn’t even  _show up_  half the time, and while he likes to imagine it’s because she thinks the class and the educational system and the way Lockwood and Whittemore crack up in the middle of Ms. Blake’s lecturing is bullshit, it’s probably because she’s getting high at the edge of the third curve on the track. When she does come in, it’s in the middle of class, slipping to her seat while they readjust desks for projects or passing Ms. Blake a note without a word. Spencer always sits with her group of friends, each one more tattooed and pierced than the next.  One’s always wearing the strangest earrings, four in each ear, made out of household objects he’s pretty sure her parents are missing. Another one, the blonde one, is always stage-whispering at Spencer’s back, shaking the pink ends of her hair away and glaring raccoon-eyed daggers at Damon. He widens his eyes and glares right back; she always looks away first.

Which is why he can’t understand how he ends up with Spencer. To no surprise, he hates group work. Half the class does, he’s sure, but Ms. Blake insists they learn to “collaborate and cooperate,” and it’s not like he gives a shit anyway. He’ll pass the work off on his partner if they’re one of the kids with binder tabs in blazers and elbow-pads, or he’ll do it himself the moment before it’s due.

But instead of Mona Vanderwaal turning shyly to take the workload for him, he hears the buckles of boots clacking together. When he looks up, shaking his hair out of his face, Spencer has slid into the desk beside him and assumed his same position: arms draped across her notebook, mouth open in a constant sigh, and he does not get distracted by the studs poking out from beneath her lip.

“Pick one of the poems to annotate,” Ms. Blake says loudly, pulling the beanie off Scott McCall’s horrendous new haircut and making him scramble to cover it. “You have thirty minutes. If you finish early, pick another; you know the drill.”

Damon sighs, but his mind is already reeling. So he’s going to be doing all the work for this one? He’s never seen Spencer turn in an assignment, not that he was looking, and he’s not certain she even knows what chapter they’re on, not that he cares. It won’t be difficult (it’ll be  _easy_ ), but it’s the  _principle_  of things, and he’s not keen on doing some slacker’s work for them.

She pushes her notebook to the edge of her desk, speaking like it’s costing her a lot to even expel the air. “You can copy it.”

He blinks, lifting an eyebrow before he glances at the paper, expecting some angsty poem or a drawing of him strung up from the rafters. But it’s not. It’s not one, but  _two_ of the poems, thoroughly scrawled out and torn apart and sewn back together with arrows and perfect script and not at all the interpretation he was getting. He looks up, obviously shocked, and she sighs like he’s  _cramping her style_  before tapping a dark nail on the page.

“The rose is a metaphor for a vagina. Not the most original, but I guess back in the sixteenth century it was pretty revolutionary shit. But it doesn’t just represent a body part, it represents – “

“No, I  _get it_ ; I didn’t think  _you_  did.”

She blinks, wide-eyed but heavy lidded and completely unimpressed, and he stares in vehemence before pointing to one of the lines. Like a test. “But that’s wrong.”

They spend the rest of the class debating one line, never circling back and always delving deeper, and at the end of the thirty minutes Damon hands in her paper with both their names at the top without once looking away from the heat of her eyes.

They don’t partner up again. Not because they don’t want to, but because now they’re partnering up every Thursday beneath the bleachers. A celebration for the weekend, or if the game the night before didn’t go well, an outlet for frustration. Their friends don’t ask because they don’t know, but it’s also not a secret and he’s not sure why he likes that. It’s never the same: once, he had her pressed against the cool concrete, piercings just peeking out between his fingers when the cross country team ran by and he clamped a hand over her mouth. The next, she didn’t even use her hands, just pinned his hips against the wall with her mouth and a warning look. The week before homecoming, he makes her beg until her voice is horse, and the next she won’t even let him finish.

She’s taught him a lot of things. Like a new appreciation for tongue rings that makes his dick ache in the middle of study hall. But more than that too, when they’re straightening their jackets and hair or even in the middle of it. She argues with him, tells him when he’s doing something wrong ( _“Not_ wrong _, Salvatits, just not the way I like it”_ ), but most of all she  _listens_ , and that’s an aphrodisiac that he’s absolutely certain he should not be this aroused by.

“It’s not about romance,  _jesus_ , why can’t it just be abo – out –  _f-uck, yeah, just a little – mmhmm_  – about friends?”

“Because – it’s about – romance. No one –  _yeah? Like that?_  – is like that – with just – ‘their friends.’”

“Derek – and Stiles are like that.”

“Hmmph. Derek – and  _Stiles_  are fucking.”

“Oh. Hm.  _MMm._  Still stand by it.”

She’s got a fucking novel on her skin. Flowers vining down her chest and scales on every animal that curls around her hips. He traces every single one with his tongue and finds he was right: she does taste good in his mouth. Every part. He doesn’t ask her what they mean and she doesn’t offer it, and neither of them are worried about what this is or where it’s going that he almost forgets she hasn’t always been sneaking him fresh cookies from the caf for the last four years.

“So…you want to go to prom?”

She shakes her head, not looking up from where she’s lacing her boot. “Nah.”

He nods, shrugging a little, because it’s pretty much what he expected. And though he knows her well enough by now to know she  _won’t_ , he can’t help but expect some tirade about “social expectations” and stupid dances and paying out the ass for a dress she’ll never wear again.

“Hey.”

He makes a noise of acknowledgment, narrowing his eyes to be sure the soccer team has rounded up their cones and left the field.

“You want to go to prom?”

He blinks, glancing over his shoulder to where she’s still tugging up her tights before she lifts her eyes to him. “I wanted to ask you first. Gender roles.” And then she’s _grinning_ , and he’s sure it’s the most radiant thing he’s ever seen, and they’re both late for fourth period because he’s doing everything he can to make that smile absolutely sated.


End file.
